Stalking A Memory
by Arion Hunter
Summary: The trademark phrase has been forgotten, and Stalker must find s way to remember it, or he faces dire consequences. A parody of the first order.


His hair had lost its inky blackness and now lay peppered with grey, but still he stood proudly in the spotlight. His back had grown less proud, but he still held his winning smile, teeth now changed from their original calcium to a white ceramic. The ponytail no longer waggled with his motions, but shook arthritically, as if to attempt to invoke those glory days of long ago.

There was one thing that had refused to change over the years, his most famous line. And with such pride did he yell it every four years.

"Sore de wa …Gundam Fight! Ready? GO!"

---

It was rare that a moment in Stalker's schedule was found free during the first half of the Gundam Fight. Publicity for the fight and the constant trips around the world to tape his trademark opening left him spending many a night sleeping in his tired trailer, assistant Hayato there to fill in for his every need. While Stalker didn't always approve of the college dropout's action, he had to admit he did his job well.

"Sure, Mr. Gibbons. I'll have Mr. Stalker ready Friday morning for the photo shoot. And no, you will not need to have a buffet ready for Mr. Stalker or this entourage. He prefers to eat only organic foods with no chemical substitutes." A phone clicked.

"That was the photographer. You've got a shoot on Friday, so you're going to need to be up early."

"Must it be Friday? I have to be in Neo-Panama by at least late Saturday for that infernal Announcers' Conference."

"I can try pulling some strings, Sir." The exasperation was evident.

"Don't try. Do."

Silence filled the small double wide.

"Please."

Stalker sighed and leaned back in his chair, script resting idly on his nose. "Welcome, one and all, to The 16th Gundam Fight. It is rare that such a great crowd of accomplished fighters participate…" Halfway through describing the Fight rules, he winced at the noise coming from the television. "Hayato…"

"Yes, sir. I'll turn it down." Hayato sighed ruefully and turned away from his charge. However, his mind wiped the incident away, as Neo-Japan landed a Grand Slam against the Neo-American Patriots in the first inter-continental exhibition game of the FC 76 season.

---

"The time is ripe, ladies and gentlemen! We're going to see history in the making here as Neo-Iceland's Tyr Gundam goes head-to-head with Neo-Germany's Kaiser Gundam. But this is not some ordinary match up, folks. This is the end of a rivalry that has spawned countless skirmishes, and over ten draw matches!

He could felt thefloor vibrate, the air quivering with anticipation. This would be a ratings record, for sure. "All the gloves are off here! Both fighters have agreed to stay standing until one submits! Now…"

And a mental eraser seemed to wipe away the rest of his speech.

"Sore De Wa … Play ball!"

---

Hayato fervently despised shopping; fate always demanded he end up in line behind the bickering old lady who didn't seem to understand things didn't work like they did when super stores were but a monopolists dream and the mathematically inept. However, he knew his job as an aide required he dirty his hands, not Stalker, so he bit his tongue and ran through the Quickie Mart as fast as possible, nabbing the case of purified, vitamin-enriched, all natural alpine spring water from the Topeka water utility and the few dozen ten ounce bags of organic prunes.

One thing Hayato did pride himself in, however, was his skill at the art of line checkout. Hayato's eyes darted across the front of the checkout area, his mind analyzing the dynamics of the line placement and length. Left held old, possibly bitter lady with a ripped, extremely dog-eared price tag and box of Ramen noodle cups; Right was a mother and child with a few items. Placement was much worse, however. Right next to the small rack of cheap, low end toys that lured so many youngsters and exasperated mothers. Milliseconds became seconds, and seconds became even more seconds, and Hayato's nose finally caught the inevitable whiff of stale tobacco and unwashed men. He darted right and hoped dearly for his luck to hold.

It was to no avail, however.

"Mommy, I want this one!" The boy waved around the brightly colored box frantically, his face pleading. Giving in, she took it and examined the toy inside. A uncharacteristically buff and youthful Stalker stared up at both the mother and Hayato, who had found himself inexorably drawn to the argument.

"Tennis-playin' Stalker?" Her quizzical face matched the tone of her voice as the red the bright letter emblazoned across the top of the box.

"You see, he plays with Neo-Australia's fighter at his private tennis court! See, it's his Ethnic Hobby!" The boy brandished yet another, much larger box this time, the fake vibrancy of his smile matching the colors of the box.

His mother sighed, already knowing the costs that were going to amount. Stalker can't just play tennis his entire life! He could go skiing with the super skiing Neo-Switzerland fighter, play football with Neo-America, spar with the Neo-Japanese fighter in an authentic dojo. But of course, with this immense number of dates, he'd need someone to keep track. Time of Sam, the super Personal Secretary! He'd need his own office, business, suit, and date book, not counting all that equipment for all this weekend golf outings with the boys.

And what if Stalker feels lonely? Enter Gina, the Neo-Swedish wife for all. With breasts and hips of universal envy, she saunters into Stalker's life and transforms him into the perfect father role model, with the house to match. After the wedding chapel, dress, and limousine have just begun to gather dust, Gina's pregnant! Can't have a birth without at least an obstetrician and a few nurses, of course.

But what happens when Gina runs off with another man? Gregory, the dashing lawyer, is here to save the day!

---

Hayato didn't even ask Stalker if he wanted him to stay overnight. He just casually deposited the plastic bags of water and prunes on the flimsy card table that served as the communal desk, then flipped the television on and collapsed into one of the small chairs set around the television, occasionally awakening the aging announcer whenever he nodded off.

Hayato shook his head and yawned. Tonight's entertainment consisted of Neo-American stock car racing, an indulgence for the closet speed demon in Hayato. He chuckled as the thought brought back memories of why he had even taken this job. All the glamorous fighters, the controversy and secrecy behind the ratings committee, the very speed of life here. Even now he laughed at the thought, easily speaking over Stalker's quiet rumination on the fate of Neo-Luxemburg, a third-tier fighter. His real job was running around to convenience stores and baby-sitting a man who many considered past his prime.

A yell behind Hayato ordered him to turn the volume down.

---

Stalker found himself sapped the morning of the fight, a fact which worried him. It may have just been two third-tier fighters, both scrapping to hold onto last place, but his performance was crucial. The last two fights had found him blanking at the crucial moment, and one more failure could find

His mouth opened, and words known 'round the world came flowing out.

"Sore De Wa…Start your engines!"

Slightly.

---

The ratings board met once every four years. Or so they thought.

The chairman was frank. "This is an emergency."

"Why? It's just one or two mishaps." The other board members nodded as he spoke, unconvinced.

"That phrase is everything our marketing relies on. The Stalker gatchapon toys, the action figure for the interactive Gundam Fight stadiums," The speaker paused, searching for the impact of his words. "These kids want an accurate figure. Picture it. Little Jiro, all ready with his Gundam Fight Semi-Finals. Neo-Tanzania and Neo-Dominican Republic are going head to head, in the history-making fight of the third-world titans. They prepare for that picture perfect opening, press that button, and Stalker screams 'Sore De Wa…Start your engines!' Just think. What would you be? Crushed? Infuriated? Yes! And more importantly, you wouldn't be spending your cash.

"We stand to lose almost all of our sponsor contracts if Stalker keeps fooling around. Think about it. Suddenly, Stalker can't attend the pool party with all this cool fighter friends; he can't lounge out in his Limited edition Stalker swim trunks. He can't even go golfing on the weekends in his specialty Stalker golf cart. He can't even play basketball with the 'homies' on his specially-made court. Why?

He answered for them. "Because of one phrase: 'Sore De Wa…Gundam Fight! Ready? Go!'"

---

"Now, why exactly are we driving twenty miles from the Neo-American battlefield just for some restaurant?"

"Was recommended to me by a friend. Said I might get some peace and quiet there." Unconsciously, Hayato took note of the clipped sentences. Over the past few days, Stalker had been distancing himself from people, a habit most abnormal for the gregarious extrovert. Never before had he seen such behavior, and it worried him.

"The battlefield has been rather packed, hasn't it? I can understand why they would be wary of choosing another stadium to avoid more mass casualties, but the logic behind here leaves me baffled."

"Restaurant, concession and soft drink lobbies. Nothing is better than a captive, hungry audience with the magic plastic."

"Surely they are not that powerful?"

A snarl rose on his face, and Stalker's hand flashed over the dashboard, nearly knocking Hayato's grip from the steering wheel. "Power." The clinking was soft, yet was still audible over the engine's low hum. "For the love of money, people will steal from their mother, rob their own brother." Stalker added a bit of his classic stage flair to the last phrase, chuckling at his own cleverness for adding that tiny touch. His laugh trailed off into confused oblivion upon seeing Hayato's blank look. "The O'Jay's? Classic soul group? Made a huge resurgence in the soul revival of FC 23?"

"I-um…like _YMCA_?" The answer was tentative at best, for Stalker's sudden happiness had utterly thrown him off.

Stalker snorted at the mention. " Obviously, you don't know the good stuff." He affected an air only an aficionado could. Hayato was tempted to mention that Stalker had been born nearly a hundred years after this music was first produced, but thought better of it. It was to no consequence, for Stalker turned his attention to the window. "I think I'll get a bit of sleep. Please awake me when we arrive."

Even so, Hayato could have sworn her hear something muttered concerning the Village People and death by impalement on very pointy, Y-shaped hands. Despite himself, he now had to stifle a laugh. Stalker was certainly someone he would miss, he begrudgingly admitted to himself.

---

The bright neon sign, once blinding but now on its last few sparks, was the first giveaway, through the shiny aluminum surface of the trailer-like building no doubt left motorists squinting in broad daylight, Hayato mused. He was not fond of the American institution known as the "diner," but the two of them had little choice. It was at least a good seventy miles from this 'Joe's' to the nearest large town. He softly tweaked Stalker's braid, awakening the groggy announcer, and calmly lead the way into the establishment.

Hayato disliked when a place was everything he expected, and nothing he wanted, but Joe's seemed determined to prove him wrong. The waitress sat the pair immediately upon entrance, but it was only after she requested orders that she realized exactly who she was serving.

"What's the difference between pancakes and pancakes with bacon?"

However, it seemed the groggy Stalker was utterly determined to inadvertently ruin his image at every turn. Hayato briefly shared a look with the waitress, her eyes pleading. Instinctively, Hayato read her through processes and nodded, silently prodding her forward. Finally, she offered a tentative reply.

"You get…bacon?"

"Ah, good. Always liked bacon. I'll have that."

Hayato gave the waitress a winning smile and placed his order, briefly remembering through the distracted haze of his mind to add a fresh pot of coffee at the end. His attention, however, was on Stalker. It was not particularly surprising that Stalker was tired, but this was a new situation for Hayato.

Stalker noticed this, but chose to pointedly ignore, sipping at his water glass. "Stop. I admit, I was angry in the car, but it'll be fine in the end. It always is."

"Are you sure?"

"Maybe, but I have decided, for once, to stop worrying. The android can do two times the work I do anyway. No jet lag, no bleary eyes, no need to cover the wrinkles and bags."

"It is to be a perfect replica?"

"The last hair follicle will be an exact copy of mine. It would be a clone if not for the fear someone would be tempted to use DG cells."

"I assume they'll still use your voice?"

"I will record all the openings myself, and the android will simply play them back at the proper time." At this point Stalker recouped a bit of pride. "They would do nothing else."

At this Hayato shrugged and looked away. He knew he could not fake indifference with Stalker, so he simply instead chose to avoid answering.

"It has not escaped your notice, I know, that I am a tired old man. And like an old man, I am prone to breakage." Stalker stared intently at his aide over the rim of his cup as he sipped, all traces of earlier grogginess gone. "In many ways, you are just the man I needed in my failing years, Hayato. You are an excellent aide because you care about your charges, no matter what hell they put you through.

Stalker exhaled slowly then turned his attention to the window. "You can't save every one, however. It's a part of the deal. I become the magnanimous legend, and you fade into the background, getting no credit. And you do indeed deserve every bit of it. Now, let us quit this discussion."

Hayato elected not to speak for the rest of the meal, giving only the barest of thanks to the waitress. He ate, chewing his food slowly, as his mind pursued various fruitless paths of thought. As he was about to take a sip of water from his glass he paused thoughtfully.

"Stalker, you're drinking tap water."

It took great force of will, but only a tiny, undignified dribble escaped Stalker's bulging cheeks.


End file.
